I pushed the door open wider.

The old hinges gave a loud, dry creak.

Daniel turned his head toward the sound.

His eyes narrowed as he saw me standing in the doorway.

“Emily?” he said.

He did not get up from the stool.

Clara slowly dropped her hand from his.

She did not look startled; she looked amused.

“You should have stayed at the penthouse, Emily,” Clara said.

“What are you doing in my studio, Daniel?” I asked.

My voice was steady.

I stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind me.

Daniel stood up, adjusting his cuffs.

“We need to talk about your attitude,” he said.

He walked toward me, his steps slow and measured.

I reached into my bag and wrapped my fingers around the cold metal of the drive.

I pulled my hand from the bag.

The silver flash drive caught the dim light of the studio’s overhead bulb.

Daniel stopped walking.

His eyes drifted down to the small piece of metal in my palm.

“You should be careful what you steal from my desk, Emily,” he said.